With moonlight as her only lamp and the cobblestone road under her bare feet to guide her toward the bridge, Lili felt clever and brave. She had outfoxed the brutish guards of this kingdom called Albion. For all their fine iron and their big blue roofs—whatever craft or secret lore let them make such large impressive things—they were still only men, and men could be fooled.
The stones were a marvel. In the North there were no roads like this. On the smooth Roman faces her bare soles went quick and light—silent, almost playful. It felt good.
Then the bridge's black spine cut into view between trees, torchlight biting along its edge. Three burly men stood watch: two chatting easily, the third throwing a stick for his sheepdog, who bounded out and back again, delighted with life despite the hour.
Before the men—or worse, the dog—could catch her scent, she slipped right, into brush and reed, aiming to skirt the checkpoint and take to the water as planned.
The ground promptly changed its mind about being kind. Twigs poked her feet; hawthorn snagged her cloak; nettle kissed her shins; flint chips hid like teeth and scraped her pale skin. The tidy rhythm of stone and grass gave way to August mush.
"Au—au—au," she hissed under her breath, every other step. In the North, bare feet were for warm plank by the fire or smooth sand at the shore—cliffs and paths were for reindeer leather boots. She was a climber, yes, but not a barefoot bush-creature.
The night life took offense at her progress. Birds burst up, chittering and scolding; a hedgehog decided this was not the place and bumbled off elsewhere; a family of rabbits bounced away in a panic of white tails. "Sorry—sorry—go back to sleep," she whispered, which did not help at all.
The shrubs opened onto sedge and willow root—and then water took her calves, her thighs, her waist. Her dress drank the channel and dragged. A cold shiver shot through her when the ripple touched her navel. She scrambled sideways for shallows, legs heavy, mud sucking at her steps.
Somewhere a duck scooped itself into the air and drew a stitched line against the moon, quacking its outrage as it went.
Lili rose to ankle-deep water, then sank again to her knees. Cold mud hugged her calves.
"Fine," she muttered. "This is… all fine."
With effort she slogged to the grassy rim and hauled herself out—soaked, shivering, and newly determined to avoid wet spots. She had barely caught breath when something cool and slick slid along her shin, wriggled, and latched to her foot.
Instinct made her swat. Her fingers met a small, black, slippery body—not so easy to shoo. It clung.
"Ew—ew—ew!" She bit her lip, pulled both legs in close, and went to work. Pinch—peel—flick. The first leech let go and hit the water with a plop. Then she felt more—half a dozen, then more—tiny mouths steady at their thieving.
"Ew! Disgusting—no, stop—get off me—damn it—no, you can't drink my blood, you leeches—whatever you're called—eww!" Blood beaded in pinpoints where the fine teeth had fed. When the last black worm wriggled back into the dark, she sat trembling on the edge of laughter and tears, veil askew, dignity drowned.
Inside, the small sun didn't speak—just a quiet, steadfast warmth. Be brave for the baby. She nodded to no one, pulled her cloak tight, and moved on.
Right would have taken her away from the bridge, but a narrow stream barred her path and, perversely, kept curling her back toward it. The water twisted and re-twisted like a sleeping serpent, sending off side arms that forced her always closer to the torches. Unhelpfully, the bridge remained the shortest crossing to the mainland.
Soon she was within sight—and hearing—of the watch, but not so near that they should notice her. She could still swim from here. A patch of dry scrub led to the water's lip. Between her and the channel to Albion's bigger island: no swamp, no leech-nursery—gravelly shallows paging into dark. The forest on the far bank stood like an unspoken riddle. She wasn't from these lands; she didn't know the plants or the dangers; but choices were thin.
She stood, hesitating. She had planned to slip in and swim. She wanted to. But her feet still stung, and the thought of her whole body vanishing beneath a writhing veil of leeches arranged her face into a grimace she couldn't politely name.
Courage wavered. Ideas did, too.
A rustle cut the thought. Another, closer. The brush behind her shook; a twig snapped; torchlight breathed copper over willow bark.
A sheepdog burst out first—black and white with a tan splash over the brows—tongue lolling, joy uncontained.
"Warf!"
Lili squeaked, flinched backward, and sat down in the shallows. Sand took the fall kindly; cold water took her breath less kindly.
"Fenton!" a man's voice called, amused and exasperated at once. "What've you there, boy? Fenton—did you find someone?"
The accent was Albion through and through—poetic and sing-song when it wasn't trying. Lili froze. Speaking would let the North climb out of her mouth waving flags. She flapped a hand to shoo the dog; Fenton barked helpfully, advertising his discovery.
Torchlight shouldered through the shrubbery like a living thing, breathing hot on leaves. A guard heaved into view—kettle helm shoved back, gray threaded through a brutish beard, blue tabard over mail that rasped when he moved. Fire painted his cheekbones like war paint and threw Lili's wet face up out of the dark, naked and small.
"Ah—what have we here?" His voice was thick and close. The torch lifted higher, bright as a brand. "Thou lass—what in God's name doest thou abroad at this hour?"
A black-and-white beast bolted to his boots and snarled a joyous bark, tongue lolling, eyes hot coins in the firelight. Lili had never known dogs—only wolves—and the way it pranced, eager, teeth showing, felt like hunger. The torch broke the water into plates of copper; his mail turned to scales; her breath sawed in her throat.
She darted a glance to the channel—the only door left—and gathered herself to dive.
He must have seen the decision coil in her shoulders. "Hold, girl!" he barked, voice cracking like a whip—and then he came at her. Boots crashed into the shallows; the torch roared; water slapped her calves. A gauntleted hand—rough, iron-rimmed—closed on her shoulder. Fingers bit. She twisted, slipped, the world went sideways; his chest hit her back like a wall and folded her into him. The smell of wet wool, smoke, and iron swallowed the night as he dragged her bodily out of the black water and into his arms.